


The Ill Detective

by CopperBreeches



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBreeches/pseuds/CopperBreeches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns home to find Sherlock ill and claiming he's dying. John is sceptical and puts it down to Sherlock's dramatics as he diagnoses Sherlock with a virus, but there is more to Sherlock's illness than meets the eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ill Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this particular fic is based on [The Adventure of the Dying Detective](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Dying_Detective). As a result some doctor related aspects of John's characterisation might seem a bit odd or OOC at times but this is the result of me trying to follow the plot of the ACD short story.   
> Many thanks to [Readbyanalise010](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Readbyanalise010/pseuds/Readbyanalise010) for looking over this fic.

There were many things that amazed John about Sherlock Holmes. Some were more happily impressive than others. One of the more frustrating ones was that in the space of seventy two hours Sherlock could turn the flat upside down. As a result of Sherlock's past form there had been a bit of trepidation on John's part when he left for a three day medical conference. Crossing his fingers he trusted that Sherlock was a grown man and hoped Mrs Hudson would keep an eye on him.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a touch of concern when Mrs Hudson met him at the door, grabbed his bag and bustled him inside before he'd even had a chance to find his door key.

“Thank goodness you're back. You're just what Sherlock needs,” she said, pushing John toward the bottom of the stairs.

“Sherlock? What's wrong?”

“He's always said you're a good doctor,” Mrs Hudson said. “He wouldn't let me call anyone else.”

“Why does Sherlock need a doctor?” John asked, feeling very worried. Illness? Injury? Overuse of nicotine patches? With Sherlock you could never tell. 

“Go up and see him,” Mrs Hudson said. “He'll be glad to see you.”

John didn’t waste any time and took the stairs two at a time. He called Sherlock's name as he reached the top, hoping for some clue as the state of his friend. 

To his relief Sherlock was just lying on the sofa, facing the door, wearing his dressing gown and looking bored. There was nothing at all unusual that John could see.

“Sherlock?”

“I'm ill, John,” he said, throwing his head back against the cushion he was resting his head on. 

Typical Sherlock melodrama, John thought. In the heat of a case Sherlock could lose a limb and barely notice but outside of that boredom could amplify a broken nail into a major medical disaster. He was about to bend down to give Sherlock a kiss when Sherlock held a hand up to stop him. 

“No, John, don't kiss me. It's a terrible illness. I don't want you to get it.”

John couldn't actually see any signs of a terrible illness. Although Sherlock's lips looked a little dry but that wasn't unusual and a bit of Vaseline would probably sort them out.

“Since when have you been concerned about my welfare?” John asked, standing back. 

“It's agony, John. It's an illness I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well... maybe Anderson. And Mycroft when he's been insufferable. He could kiss me.”

John frowned, maybe Sherlock was a bit delirious. “You want your brother to kiss you?”

“There are other methods of touch I could transmit it by. I don't want you to get it. If you fall ill who's going to nurse me?”

“I'm a doctor, Sherlock, not a nurse. I can help diagnose you but I'm not waiting on you twenty four hours a day.” Being a nurse to Sherlock was not so much a medical position as servitude. 

“You should wear your doctor's uniform. And here, wear this.” Sherlock reached a hand behind the cushion and pulled out a piece of very familiar medical equipment. 

“Is that my spare stethoscope?” John asked, reaching out and taking it from Sherlock. He examined it carefully to make sure it was in one piece. 

“I’ve had to monitor my heart rate, John.”

“On your own?”

“You weren't here. You abandoned me,” Sherlock said, pouting. 

“For a medical conference.”

“Did they cover exotic diseases?” 

John had told Sherlock what it was about but it was no surprise he hadn't listened. “No, it was about patient care guidelines.”

“You do care, don't you, John?” Sherlock asked, sounding remarkably vulnerable.

“Of course I care about you,” John replied, moving to touch Sherlock's forehead.

Again Sherlock held up a hand. “No, John, I told you, you can't kiss me, or touch me. Or hug me.”

“Can I examine you?”

“If you're wearing latex gloves,” Sherlock conceded. 

Rolling his eyes John went to fetch a pair from the bathroom. They had more latex gloves than some hospital departments the way Sherlock went through them. He also grabbed the thermometer out of the cupboard along with paracetamol and John also took the flannel from the side of the sink. 

As he walked back he could hear Sherlock groaning, rather dramatically if you asked John, but then Sherlock was ill, and John could understand that for someone who still struggled to realise that he couldn’t actually control his own body (the erection 'experiment' should have been proof of that) it must be frustrating to feel even a little off colour. 

John knelt down beside Sherlock and held up the thermometer.

“Where are you putting that, John?” Sherlock asked, sounding alarmed. 

“I want to put it under your armpit,” John said. 

“I'll do it to prevent any infection,” Sherlock said. “You're not wearing your gloves.”

John allowed Sherlock to take the thermometer as he stood up and put the gloves on. He held up his hands. “Better?”

“You can continue,” Sherlock said, giving John permission. 

“All right, what are your symptoms?” John asked, deciding that whilst Sherlock was still it was a good time to take his pulse. He didn't bother with the stethoscope just yet. 

“Agony.”

“That's not a symptom Sherlock that's a feeling.” 

“Lack of appetite. I’ve not eaten for three days.”

“That's not unusual, Sherlock,” John replied. Sherlock's heart rate was perhaps a bit quicker than usual but John had seen it much higher. “I've seen you go a week not eating when you’re on a case. Or are you forgetting that you think starving yourself helps your brain work better?”

“My brain's not working now, John.”

“And so you've learnt a valuable lesson about the nutritional requirements of the human body.”

“Your bedside manner is severely lacking, Doctor,” Sherlock said, with just a little bite to his voice. 

“All right, I'm sorry,” John said. He was. It was just hard to treat Sherlock like any other patient. “Let me get the thermometer.”

Sherlock allowed John to carefully extract it. John held it up and read the result. It was perhaps a degree above normal, so clearly Sherlock was ill. 

“Well?”

“You have a slightly elevated temperature. Any nausea?”

“Yes.”

John bent down and carefully touched Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock winced but didn't make a sound. “Have you been sick at all? Vomited?”

“I've not eaten anything John, how could I have been sick?”

“All right. Any pain?”

“All over, John, in my limbs, my head.”

John touched Sherlock's forehead. It did feel warm and feverish and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “Headache? 

“Yes.”

“Have you taken any painkillers?”

“Paracetamol about an hour ago.”

So that ruled out giving Sherlock any more just yet. Even if it hadn't seemed to make much of a difference. “Okay. Have you been drinking?”

“Not really. I've not had the option to make tea. Mrs Hudson keeps bringing me soup.” 

John stood up and carefully peeled off the gloves. “Well, I'd say you've got a virus.”

“It's not just a virus, John. I'm dying.”

“You’re not dying, Sherlock. A few days rest and you'll be fine.”

“I have all the symptoms of Tapanuli fever or even the black Formosa corruption.”

“Did you try and diagnose yourself by looking your symptoms up on the internet?” John asked. He had caught Sherlock diagnosing Lestrade with West Nile Fever when all Greg had was the flu. Sherlock's mind tended toward more fantastical diagnoses. 

“My doctor wasn't here.”

“Sherlock, you've just got a virus.”

“It's more serious than that, John.”

John sighed. If Sherlock wasn't going to take his medical opinion seriously then he'd get another doctor to look at Sherlock. It might have been worth asking someone more personally removed from the situation anyway. “Look, I can get Sarah to come and take a look at you...”

Before John could even finish the sentence Sherlock was protesting. “No! No. Just you, John.”

“Rest and plenty of fluids. If you still feel this bad tomorrow we'll get a second opinion.”

“Thank you.”

John went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of water. He ran the flannel under the tap and then rung the excess water out. With both in hand he went back over to Sherlock who had closed his eyes. John took it as a sign Sherlock was agreeing that he should have a rest. 

John placed the flannel on Sherlock's forehead. 

“It's cold and wet, John,” Sherlock protested.

“It will help your temperature and probably your headache,” John replied. He held out the glass of water. “Have a drink.”

Sherlock took the glass and downed the entire thing in near enough one gulp. He clearly hadn't been taking in enough fluids. He handed the empty glass back to John. 

“All right. Now I'm going to go shopping.”

“And leave me again?” 

“I'll have a word with Mrs Hudson. She can come up and keep you company. I'll go and pick up a few things for you.” Mentally John was already getting together a list. Some ibuprofen, lucozade, something Sherlock could eat despite his nausea and some latex gloves. 

John went and rinsed the glass out only to notice a strange box on the kitchen table. It was quite small, made of wood and there seemed to be a picture of an elephant on the top. 

“What's this?” John asked, picking it up. He was about to open it when he was startled by Sherlock shouting. 

“Don't touch it, John!”

“Why not? It's in the way...”

“No. Experiment,” Sherlock paused. “Please. I need some more water. Get me some.”

If Sherlock was saying please he must feel terrible. “All right.”

John put the box back down and filled up the glass again. He gave it to Sherlock and then made his way out. 

He wasn't surprised that Mrs Hudson met him at the bottom of the stairs. “How is he?” she asked, sounding like a concerned parent. 

“He'll be fine, it's just a virus.”

“Oh, that's all right, isn’t it? He kept talking about some black temperate virus thing.”

“You know Sherlock he spends too much time researching horrible ways for people to die. If you want to go up I'm sure he'll like the company.”

“Where are going?” Mrs Hudson asked, sounding shocked that John would even contemplate it.

“Just need to get a few things for Sherlock. I won't be long.”

There was a distinct loud groan from upstairs that sounded very like John's name. 

“You better hurry up then,” Mrs Hudson said. “I'll keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you.”

 

By the time John got back Mrs Hudson had gone but Sherlock was still where he left him. He went into the kitchen to sort through the shopping and noticed the box that had been on the table had disappeared. 

“Sherlock, where did that box go?”

“What box? Are you talking about a coffin, John? I want you in charge of my funeral.”

“Never mind,” John said. Faced with a delirious Sherlock convinced he was dying John forgot all about the box and instead concentrated on getting Sherlock to drink enough. 

 

By lunchtime Sherlock's fluid intake was better though he'd only barely nibbled on the digestive biscuits John had suggested he try, even though Sherlock had wanted them smeared with honey. The crumbs had ended up stuck around the edges of his mouth. Suddenly he sat up, startling John who was sitting by the fire reading the paper. 

“John! You need to update your blog!”

“What now? Why? We don't have a case.” 

“You need to tell the world Sherlock Holmes is dying!”

“Sherlock, you're not dying.”

“John!”

“All right, I'll make a blog post if it will help you feel better,” John was already getting up and going over to the desk. His laptop was still where he left it, obviously Sherlock had been feeling too ill to bother using since John had been away. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, settling back down against the cushion. 

 

**_Sherlock Holmes is Ill._ **

**_Got back from a medical conference this morning (it was boring but the catered food was nice) to find Sherlock claiming he was dying. I've checked and he does have a temperature and all the signs of a virus. Of course Sherlock, being the world's only consulting detective, has been busy on the internet and thinks he's got some exotic virus that's killing him. Apparently the opinion of a qualified doctor hasn't reassured him. So far he's drunk four glasses of water and two glasses of lucozade._ **

**_He is still alive but he requests that no get well cards are sent because he wants flowers at the funeral._ **

**_Give it a few days and I’m sure he'll regret saying that._ **

**_And don't send him flowers. He hates them. He's also not eating so any grapes but if you do send any I'll eat them. If I get my five a day in hopefully I won't catch it._ **

 

John had just finished posting when Sherlock was moaning again. 

“John, do you love me?”

“Of course I love you,” John said, wondering if it was the fever making Sherlock sentimental. 

“If you love me you'll help me.”

“I am helping you, Sherlock.” John decided he should perhaps offer a bit more physical comfort. Or at least check Sherlock was all right. 

“You've no sympathy. I'm in a terrible plight. I might only have days left.”

“You'll be fine,” John said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, not in the mood to argue about the possibility of infection. He touched Sherlock’s forehead. “Hmmm you feel a bit warmer. Let me check your temperature.”

The thermometer showed Sherlock's temperate had gone up nearly another degree. John knew that this was dangerous. Although Sherlock wasn't showing any other serious symptoms it might only be a matter of time. 

“Okay, your temperature is too high, Sherlock, we're going to have to get you to the surgery.” He tried to get Sherlock to sit up but Sherlock remained still, a dead weight. 

“No, John. I can't walk.”

“Then we'll call an ambulance. Your temperature’s too high, you could end up with convulsions.”

“I can't travel like that, John. They don’t take Oyster cards.”

“Okay, now you're getting delirious,” John said, trying not to panic. Logically an ambulance could get to Baker Street very quickly. 

“Culverton-Smith,” Sherlock said. 

“Who?”

“There's a man, Culverton-Smith he's a consultant on tropical diseases. Call him. “

“Is he a doctor?” John was well aware of the charlatans on the internet. 

“He's an expert. They don't all carry medical degrees.”

“So he's an amateur then?”

“Check out his website if you're worried. He's lectured at Bart's.”

There wasn't time to be checking out websites in John's opinion. “You need to go to hospital.”

“And if I'm carrying an infectious disease I might cause an outbreak. I'll have some paracetamol.”

“I should call an ambulance,” John protested. 

“Please, John, now.”

John's professional head was warring strongly with his heart. He knew that if he called an ambulance Sherlock could very well refuse to go to hospital and there wouldn't be much John could do. Despite the fact he was delirious Sherlock was sounding very logical. John picked up the phone. 

“All right, I'll call him,” John said, he didn't really know what was best. “What his number?”

“His website is up on my computer,” Sherlock said. 

John opened it up and sure enough the website 'Disease Plantation' was displayed. 

“Great title,” John muttered as he keyed in the number that was shown on the contact us page of the website. 

The phone only rang couple of times before it was answered. The person who answered was a woman. “Hello, can I speak to Mr Culverton-Smith please? It's an emergency,” John said.

“I'm sorry, he's in a meeting, I'm his secretary. I can take a message.”

John had no idea what the message would be. “No, it's fine, thank you.”

He ended the call with a heavy heart. He felt calling 999 was now the best option. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked. 

“His secretary said he was in a meeting.”

“Try this,” Sherlock said, pulling out a small card from his pocket. “Direct number to his mobile.”

John took it and saw a mobile number scrawled on it on rather messy handwriting. “How did you get this?”

“Sister of his, asked me to look into her son's death. She gave it to me.”

John was too worried about Sherlock to really pay attention to what he was saying. He was already keying in the number.

“Mention my name. He knows who I am,” Sherlock said, sounding remarkably clam. 

“Do you know him?”

“Quickly, John. I'm feeling faint,” Sherlock fell back and closed his eyes. 

“An ambulance would be better,” John said, as the phone began to ring 

“Tell him you won't be here when he comes.”

“How do you know he's going to come?” John asked. He hadn't even spoken to the man yet. 

“He has to. Tell him you need to go out shopping.”

John frowned. “I've been shopping.

“You won't actually be going out. “

John didn’t have time to question Sherlock any further, he just had to humour his patient. A doctor trusting a patient, wasn't that a change, but then it came to Sherlock John always did. Despite his better judgement.

The phone was answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr Culverton-Smith?”

“Yes. Who is this?” The voice at the other end sounded angry, not even annoyed but actually angry. 

“Doctor John Watson. I'm a friend of Sherlock Holmes he'd asked me to call you.”

“More than a friend if the papers are right.”

The papers were right but John had long since decided not to give them any satisfaction. “Sherlock wants to see you. He's very ill and he thinks you're the man to help him.”

“You sound sceptical, Doctor.”

“I think a hospital would be better for him,” John replied, giving Sherlock a stern look as he spoke.

“Yes, well, I am an expert. A Consulting expert, much like your 'friend'. Now his symptoms?”

“Very high fever, aching limbs, nausea. He's not eaten for several days and his fluid intake has been low.”

“There has been an outbreak of Tapanuli fever among homeless people down by Canary Wharf. Could he have come into contact with them?”

“Yes.” Sherlock hadn't mentioned his movements whilst John had been away but he did come into contact with his homeless network on a regular basis. 

“It's best if I see him, to get a firm diagnosis. Can I call round?”

“Yes but I have to nip out. Our landlady can let you in, I have to get some more paracetamol.” John winced at the obvious lie and hoped it didn't show in his voice. 

“Ah well, I can talk to you when you get back. I'm only a few minutes away, ten at the most. Don't me delay you.”

“Thank you.”

John ended the call and gave Sherlock a worried look. Why was he even doing this? Because Sherlock had asked him to, of course. “All right, Sherlock, he'll be here in less than ten minutes.”

“Good. Now I want you to hide in the kitchen. He won't see you.”

“Hide behind the door and do what?”

“Wait. You’ll know what to do when it happens.”

“When what happens?” John was liking the sound of this less and less. “Sherlock, you’re ill...”

“Please, John, just do this for me. We don't have a lot of time.”

There were things John would do for Sherlock that he didn't want to think about. He wasn't sure he was prepared to let his friend die, even if it was clear there was something going on that Sherlock wasn't telling him. Sometimes John would like to know the plan in advance. 

“All right, but if you start getting worse I am getting you to hospital.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. 

 

As instructed John waited in the kitchen, behind the sliding door. Anyone coming into the flat through into the living room wouldn't be able to see him but he had a good view of Sherlock who was still lying on the sofa. He was very still and looked pale and John felt terrible just looking at him. At the sign of anything changing for the worse John would call an ambulance, his fingers were already closed around his phone in his pocket. 

He didn’t have to wait long before Culverton-Smith appeared. John could only see his back but the man was small, a bit fat and his legs looked bowed. He had a bald head which seemed a bit too large in proportion to the rest of him. 

“Ah Mr Holmes, you look awful,” Culverton-Smith said, John recognising the voice as the same angry man on the phone. This time he sounded oddly pleased. 

“I didn’t think you'd come,” Sherlock said, weakly. 

John was puzzled, Sherlock had been sure Culverton-Smith would come. Had he forgotten? Was he that ill? 

“Of course I was going to come. Don't think I'd miss this, do you?” Culverton-Smith sounded pleased. “How long has it been?”

“Three days,” Sherlock croaked. 

“You know it only took Vic four. He thought it was the flu.”

“This is worse than the flu.

“I hear the cramps are awful. Your 'friend' says you had contact with some homeless people who might have given this to you.”

“Yes, an outbreak in the Canary Wharf area,” Sherlock said, gasping a little. 

“I'm here to tell you there isn't an outbreak.” Culverton-Smith walked around and John could see a side view of him. Rarely would John say someone was repulsive but in this case he would. 

“Then how did I get this?” Sherlock asked. His voice sounded a bit steadier to John. 

“You got a little package, didn’t you, Mister Holmes?” 

“Oh, god, the pain!” Sherlock said, twisting around a little. 

Doctor's instinct told John he should call 999. His soldier’s instinct told him not to. He was torn but he stayed where he was, still trusting Sherlock. 

“Do you remember what was inside that package?”

“A package? No, I can't, please...” Sherlock had his eyes closed and rolled his head around. 

“Was it a box? A box with a picture of an elephant on it?”

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. “There was a box... it hurt my finger when I opened it...” He held up his hand and flexed it. 

“Yes, and now it's hurting more. A sharp spring with a dose of the bacteria on it. Nicks your skin and they creep. Then it's bye, bye, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Is that what you did to Victor Savage?”

Now there was the familiar strength in Sherlock's voice and John suddenly got the idea that he was watching a show. Not one put on for his benefit but one for the benefit of a case. 

“Vic? Oh yes. Vic got himself a little present. And now you're dying and there's nothing you can do.”

“Oh I think there is, isn't there, John?”

Taking that as his cue John stepped out from behind the sliding door. “Yes,” he said, taking out his phone. “The police will probably be very interested.”

“What is this? “ Culverton-Smith asked, looking shocked that John was in the room as it slowly dawned on him it was a set-up. 

“John will tell you I make a terrible patient,” Sherlock said, 

“But he does make a very good actor,” John smiled proudly. 

“You can't prove anything. You don't even have the box,” Culverton-Smith said, in front of two witnesses who had heard him confess to one murder and that he'd attempted another. 

“You mean this box?” Sherlock asked, pulling it out from the side the sofa and placing it on the table in front of him. “That I didn’t open?” He then pulled a dictation machine out of his dressing gown pocket. “And what about this? A recorded confession.”

“You what? I'll make sure you die a painful death anyway!”

Culverton-Smith leapt forward to grab the dictation machine but it was a mistake. Sherlock quickly hit him on the back of the neck. Culverton-Smith lost his balance and spun around, allowing John to get a well aimed punch. It didn't take more than the two blows to subdue the man as he fell face backward onto the sofa, out cold. 

“So, do want me to call Lestrade?” John asked. 

“I have been ill, John.”

It didn't take long for Lestrade to arrive. He took Culverton-Smith, by that point conscious but dazed, away in handcuffs, along with the recording of the confession. Both Sherlock and John promised to come in for written statements.

“Sherlock's had a very difficult ordeal and as his doctor I'm advocating a takeaway and plenty of bed rest,” John said. 

“And only a fool argues with his doctor,” Sherlock said, seemingly forgetting he'd spent all day doing exactly that.

Lestrade had just winked. “Especially not about the bed rest, eh?”

That evening they sat at the table eating Chinese takeaway as John finally realised what the whole plan had been. 

“So all this was a ruse then, to get Culverton-Smith?”

“I knew he couldn't resist seeing the results of his handiwork,” Sherlock replied, actually eating more than a mouthful for a change. 

“Is there such a thing as Tapanuli fever?”

“Yes although it's actually Melioidosis and symptoms vary. Culverton-Smith should have known that as soon as he saw me.”

“Not a very good amateur then?” John asked around a mouthful of noodles.

Sherlock smiled. “Apparently not.”

“How did you fake your symptoms?”

“Amazing what you can do with a hot water bottle, John. And not eating wasn't a hardship.”

“You cheated,” John said. He had to admire Sherlock. In his time John had seen several faked illnesses but Sherlock, with such basic fakery had still fooled him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had to sound sincere when you called him. I couldn't let Culverton-Smith know I knew how he'd committed murder.”

“You knew he'd murdered his nephew then?”

“And many other people. Culverton-Smith was a professional assassin. He used diseases and infections to make it look like his victims died of natural causes,” Sherlock said. “His nephew was a medical student and he found out the truth of his uncle's disease consultation business.”

“Culverton-Smith couldn't let him tell anyone so he killed him.” As motives went it made sense. John ate some more chicken. 

“Yes. He hadn't realised his sister would be suspicious. Her son sent her an e-mail the day before he became ill saying he needed to speak to her about her brother.”

“The mother calls you when she gets the news her son's died.”

“Yes. Culverton-Smith finds out and decides to send me a package before my investigations get very far.”

“How did you know not open it?”

“Would anyone send me a package through the post if they didn't mean harm by it?” 

John giggled. “All right, remind me never to send you an anniversary gift in the post.”

“Was I very convincing, John?”

“You had me fooled. I was worried, Sherlock,” John said, letting a little of his anger creep through. 

“I am sorry, John. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

John smiled. “Bed rest, Sherlock. Lots of bed rest. For both of us.”

“I think I can mange that,” Sherlock said, his smile matching John's. 

“Now eat your noodles.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> There were several references to the original story. Here a few of the more obvious ones:
> 
> The ACD story takes place during Watson's marriage. As I decided to put in a Sherlock/John pairing I felt this wasn't possible here. 
> 
> The references to Vaseline and the crumbs of biscuit and honey around Sherlock's mouth are nods to the things Holmes used to make himself appear sick in the original story (although he used beeswax on his lips along with belladonna in his eyes).
> 
> The box in the story is black and white ivory. That seemed a bit old fashioned. The elephant picture on the box is meant to be a nod to that. 
> 
> The name of the villain in the story is Mr Culverton Smith. I decided to hyphenate. 
> 
> Holmes thought he caught the disease from dock workers at Rotherhithe. That area is now residential and it's unlikely Sherlock would meet many sailors around there. So I chose to mention the homeless network instead. The area does have good Underground links to Canary Wharf and a wharf is a bit like dock. 
> 
> According to Wikipedia: _Tropical disease specialist William A. Sodeman, Jr., identified 'Tapanuli fever' as melioidosis,[2] a conclusion supported by physician Setu K. Vora_


End file.
